


A Good Day Had

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2314865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Runners-up prize for cesario-viola, for the giveaway. As we all now by now, the good ship Dictionary’s Muse lacks the crucial rudder called Self-Control, so the “500-700 word” piece is about 1900. </p><p>A slice of life-y fic, with Jehan’s day laid out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Day Had

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theubiquitousnoodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theubiquitousnoodle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fic On Tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/73490) by Still Me. 



The sunlight outside filters in through the window, all golden light playing over the carpet and the foot of the bed: ne basks in it, and enjoys the pleasant warmth over nir feet, nir calves. Ne is warm in bed between Bahorel and Avril, and ne reaches out, stroking over her and his forearms gently with careful fingers.

"Jehan." Avril purrs, and she leans, dragging her lips over nir jawline. Jehan hums, tilting nir head back and enjoying the attention.

"You're cold." Bahorel complains, but all the same his feet slide forwards, over nir ankles and calves.

"I must get up." Jehan says serenely, and they let nem go, but their hands both play over nir thighs as ne pulls nemself up and out of bed. Ne slips under the water of the shower, and here ne lies back and enjoys the heat of the water on nir skin, and when ne moves out, still naked, Bahorel and Avril are kissing over pancakes in the kitchen.

" _Floréal_." Jehan says softly, and Avril leans and kisses the side of nir mouth. _"Et mon ami._ " Ne adds in a pleasant murmur, and Bahorel does the same on the other side. Jehan smiles at them both, warmly, playing over each of their hips affectionately. "I will see you later."

"Later." Bahorel agrees, and he pats the other's arse affectionately as Jehan moves to put on clothes. Ne dresses simply: light jeans, a cerulean shirt patterned over with white doves, a thick, brown jumper from Feuilly.

Nir classes today are good. Ne moves through most of them in a silent dream, quiet, listening intently: in the last, however, ne begins to speak in loud, confidently flowing Hebrew, because this professor is a new one, and ne doesn't know her opinions of _any_ classic Romanticists , and ne simply _must._

Half of the class have never heard nem speak before, and it shows in the way they stare at nem, their eyes wide.

Jehan doesn't notice this.

It is not because ne doesn't care: it is because Ms Miller raises some very  _interesting_ points about Byron versus Wilde.

\---

" _Salut, Grantaire_ ." Jehan says as ne enters Grantaire's small flat; ne does not have a key, but Grantaire's front door is never locked. Jehan does not know how ne feels about this small insecurity, but ne has not yet mentioned it.

"Hello,  _petit oisillon_ , how are you?" Grantaire's English is barely accented at all - he speaks it more naturally than Courfeyrac, on level with Marius Pontmercy. Of course, Marius' accent is "proper" - Grantaire's comes in an American drawl, tainted with hints of Spanish influence. His voice is low and hoarse and husky from too much drink and too many cigarettes.

Jehan likes Grantaire's voice.

"I am well." Jehan says, and nir own English cannot compare: ne sounds as French as anything. English sounds are very difficult to mimic naturally, and too often does ne let nir other linguistic knowledge break nir English pronunciation - somehow, adopted English words create their own  _Englishness_ , and pronouncing them as they are from their original tongues works not at all.

Ne slips into Grantaire's kitchen, rolls up nir sleeves, and silently begins to wash the dishes stacked there. Only two, and several mugs - Grantaire is not eating enough, and drinking far too much. This is not unusual.

Ne dries them once they have been washed, and then puts them aside - it is rare that Grantaire remembers to do his dishes. He leaves them to rest in the sink, and only realizes he ought wash them when they are stacked so high he can add naught more to the pile. 

"You are not my maid, sweetling." Grantaire says when Jehan steps into the living room, peering with interest at the canvas before Grantaire, a sky painted all over in thick greens and blues surrounding a building of dark silver.

_Paris_ .

"I know." Jehan says, and nir left hand moves to nir right, absently playing over the bracelets there. Ne wears a lot of bracelets - most are of string and beads, but a few are light chains from one friend or another. They hide the skin beneath, at least, which is the most important thing.

" _Ch_ _è_ _r_ ." Grantaire says quietly, and he reaches out, pulling Jehan's sleeves down and holding nir hands. Jehan looks up at Grantaire: his face is uneven, scarred and pockmarked, his lips chapped with the remnants of old wounds still clinging to them. His stubble is thick because Grantaire hasn't shaved for days, and his eyes are different sizes. They are different colours, too: one is hazel, and the other is a speckled green. 

Jehan is not certain ne has ever been in love with a person, but ne is reasonably certain ne has been in love with Grantaire's face for many years now.

"Let's walk to the Musain." Grantaire says, because he wishes to distract Jehan from nir own wrists.

" _D'accord_ ." Jehan says, because ne wishes to be distracted from them.

\---

The English stops when they are outside Grantaire's apartment. They are on the streets of Paris, after all, and the unspoken rule of English practice in Grantaire's home no longer applies. It is strange, Jehan thinks, that all of them live here in Paris, and yet only Grantaire is a Parisian; somehow he embodies that very spirit.

"Pontmercy!" Grantaire calls loudly in his husky dead man's voice ( Jehan imagines sometimes that when ne dies, the cloaked boatsman on the Styx will have a voice just like Grantaire's _)_ , and the lanky figure ahead of them stops too short too suddenly, and trips.

He falls into Bossuet, but while Marius recovers himself, Bossuet tumbles forwards on a broken stone, and grazes his face on the brick below. At least this time, he did not fall into passing traffic - he has done that several times before, to Jehan's knowledge. Unlucky Bossuet. 

Jehan has to stand on his tip-toes to rub the alcohol wipe from Grantaire's bag on the poor fellow's face, as Grantaire tries and fails to get Marius to stop apologizing. 

Jehan slides nir hand into Bossuet's as they walk to the Musain, and Bossuet grins down at nem, full of cheer despite the new red marks on his face.

"Do you think Combeferre will require a bandage?" Ne asks, and Bossuet snorts.

"No, one ought let a wound like this to breathe, I should think. Joly didn't bandage the last one." Jehan nods, and ne leans on the other man as they walk on, listening to Marius and Grantaire discuss in rapid German-

_ Something. _ Jehan does not understand German very well, and ne hears "der Vogel" several times, but beyond that ne can make out none of the words. 

Ne wonders how many languages Grantaire actually knows, occasionally - if asked, he will shake his head and shrug and say, "A few!" or "Several." or "Enough!" or "Plenty." He knows German, and English, Spanish, Italian. He speaks Hebrew, but he speaks Yiddish better, and he will speak it fluently and fondly with the Jewish women he knows about the place.

At the least meeting, Enjolras had lost his temper with Grantaire for saying he could not attend a meeting. He had given no reason, and he had shrugged as if it were out of his hands. Jehan had watched with a silent, owlish gaze, unwilling to anger anyone by involving nemself. 

"Uh, Enjolras," Feuilly had said, and Jehan had never seen Feuilly look so calmly  _ stern. _ "It's Yom Kippur. I shan't be present either." Grantaire had leaned back in his seat, arms crossing over his chest, and he had not met Enjolras' eyes, even when the blond had offered a stiff and uncertain (but no less well-meant) apology.

He is not good at being embarrassed, Grantaire, Jehan thinks. He is good at everything else, though, so ne supposes it balances out. 

"Hello, Enjolras." Jehan says as they enter, and the other man smiles at nem, cupping Jehan's cheek fondly, sweetly, before looking back to Courfeyrac's laptop. Grantaire and Bossuet settle with Joly, and Marius is caught by the hand of the pretty one that is good friends with Éponine Thénardier - Miljan. Such a nice name.

Miljan Montparnasse can be so  _ charming _ too, when it suits him, and he knows much about the cultivation of flowers and cacti, and maybe Jehan ought go speak with him for just a little while-

"Jehan." Ne looks up at Combeferre, regarding him for a few moments. Combeferre is the tallest of all of them, broad at the shoulders and with skin the colour of burnished clay. He is beautiful, Jehan thinks, more beautiful even than Enjolras, whose handsome features are bright as that of the sun. Miljan Montparnasse's horticultural knowledge is forgotten. 

"Émile." Ne says sweetly. "Your beard looks nice cut like this." Ne says, because it's true - Courfeyrac or Enjolras must have helped him trim it this morning, and although Jehan had appreciated its unruliness, it looks even better now.

"Thank you. Come, sit with us." Ne does. It is with Courfeyrac and Combeferre ne will go home with tonight, ne suspects - the next day, ne will have to go home and water his plants. Ne plays with Combeferre's hands for a little time, feeling the strength of them.

Piano player's hands, doctor's hands, though Combeferre is not a doctor, and will not be.

"How is the library?" Jehan asks, and Combeferre hums, giving a shrug.

"As well as always." He smiles, and when he begins to talk about the new projects he has enacted, Jehan almost feels ne can feel the sheer warmth from Combeferre's heart burn through his hands. Enjolras is radiant, but Combeferre's heat is like a crackling fire when one comes in out of the snow - it warms the soul as it does the body.

"Jehan." Courfeyrac says, and he presses a firm kiss to Jehan's cheek before he sprawls over Combeferre's shoulders, making the older man laugh and smack him upside the head, but not hard. "Ah, my good friend, that face of yours seems lined overmuch with thought! We should fix that - a drink?"

"Schnapps." Jehan says confidently.

"My friend, we will take an age to rid your mind of thought with  _ Schnapps. _ " Courfeyrac complains, and Jehan beams at him.

"We ought start now then, for we lack time to waste." Combeferre laughs at that, and Jehan smiles too, because Courfeyrac reaches forwards and ruffles the poet's hair with obvious sentiment.

" _ Fine _ , my sweet friend - Schnapps it is. Peach?" Jehan nods, and Courfeyrac moves off. Jehan watches after him for a moment or two, smiling some. "He didn't ask for your choice." Jehan says.

"Plain Coke. He knows that." Combeferre says quietly, and Jehan nods, beginning to play over the other's hand again. "Care to join us tonight?" He asks, as Jehan knew he would.

"I would like to." Ne says with a nod. It is so much better to sleep with others than to sleep alone, after all, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are the best of pairs to sleep alongside. "Care for a game of backgammon?"

Combeferre looks at nem for a few long seconds, thoughtful, and then he nods. "Yes. Yes, alright." The board is retrieved, and Jehan settles into it with a comfortable ease. Ne is among friends, and ne is happy.

A good day has been had. 

 


End file.
